Think of these poems as an almanac for the year, a monthly calendar of not just rows of days and weeks but also the centuries of New England.
Where the past peers into the present and future.
And you peer back.
~*~
For your own copy, click here.
WHAT GAME? WHAT TEAM?
A bit of news over coffee came as a question. “Did you know Bill Clinton was in town yesterday?”
No, I had no idea. Turns out it was an unannounced stop at his wife’s campaign headquarters about a mile from our house. Fire up the troops. Support the loyalists. Show some spirit. A smart move between appearances elsewhere in the state that day.
It’s also the sort of thing that can make the New Hampshire first-in-the-nation presidential primary a lively affair. You just might be greeted by one of the White House hopefuls in your favorite diner or convenience store. You just might ask a question that generates headlines. Or you might accept a campaign button or bumper sticker or sign up to help. It’s all face-to-face, even hand-to-hand connection. You get a real-life measure of the person.
Usually, we’re aflutter in action this close to the actual voting. At least Hillary and Bernie are in traditional mode, but the Republican side is utterly baffling. I’m still not seeing much in the way of ground action. Very few bumper stickers or lawn signs, for one thing. No downtown rallies with enthusiasts waving “totem poles” of posters. No canvassers going door to door, either. Just what’s going on? Where’s the enthusiasm? The real enthusiasm?
My guess is the managers think they can do it all with television clips, mailings, radio advertising, and the like. Things they can, uh, manage. No surprises. And nothing personal.
Think of watching a professional football or baseball game and noticing there are no fans in the stands. No cheering or booing, for that matter. It would be deadly dull. And then, a moment later, realizing there are no live figures on the field, either. It’s all for appearances. Now, to the ads. The endless ads. At some point, you need a product — the one you tuned in to view.
There are good reasons to play the actual games rather than rely on the stats (or, in the political realm, rely on surveys). Upsets and unpredictable flashes make the day. The mouth-running coach may be good for building anticipation, but the quiet, calculating rival may deflate all that pregame hype and bombast. So everyone shows up for the contest. Or that’s what I’d expect.
WHERE THE ANDROSCOGGIN MEETS THE TIDE
TURNING THE PAGE FOR ANOTHER ANNUAL RITUAL
Now that the Christmas season’s over, we’re getting out the seed catalogs. Gardeners know what this means. Traditionally, they start coming in the mail about now, although some seed companies have tried to jump the gun, just like the Christmas decorations and music that now proliferate around Halloween rather than Thanksgiving. No, don’t rush us. This is to be taken thoughtfully, leisurely. Now, in the depth of winter — especially when it’s bitterly cold and snowy in places like the one where we live — our imaginations fly off to springtime and high summer. We evaluate the new varieties we ordered last year to decide whether we’ll get more (if we used up all of last year’s packet) or we’ll try something different.
Some of the catalogs are simply gorgeous. Others, including our favorite, are black-and-white and photo-free. The descriptions are fun to read and have led us to delightful harvests.
One thing I know: we’ll be ordering a certain chard we tried last year. The one that doesn’t taste like beets. No, it’s much more like spinach and so much more reliable where we live. Just don’t ask me to reveal its name. We want to make sure the supplier doesn’t run out. It’s something that happens, you know. As I recall, last year it was a kind of early pea. And before that?
It’s all part of the ritual, I suppose. Along with the intricate maps of our garden my wife draws to determine just how to fit it all in.
HERE COMES THE TRAIN
Think of passenger rails and unless you’re a rare daily commuter, you’re likely to envision earlier eras. Steam powered locomotives, for starters.
And then great journeys across the landscape.
Now keep going. Deeper into history. Trips onto the frontiers of knowledge. The edge of the known world.
You might run into genius in the most unanticipated haven.
Like this.
~*~
For your ticket, click here.
ON THE TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS
Contrary to the proclamations of many retailers in their countdown to December 25, today is the Twelfth Day of Christmas.
In many parts of the world, January 6, also known as the Feast of the Epiphany or Three Kings Day, is the day for unwrapping gifts and similar Christmas celebration. In our circle, it was time for a party where all the kids who had made gingerbread houses early in December would reunite, bringing their gaily decorated structures to be festively … smashed to pieces! Initially, I was aghast at this custom before learning that it’s real purpose was to liberate all the candy and frosting that had been used to decorate the little dwellings. There was also a cake with three almonds hidden away to determine that year’s Three Kings. Alas, the kids are all grown and the next round hasn’t yet appeared.
Thanks to my wife and her traditions, I’m among those who advocate observing Advent as a way of toning down the holiday stress and hysteria. The commonplace letdown is replaced by a slow easing into winter. Since our Christmas tree wasn’t even cut down and brought indoors till Christmas Eve, we’ll leave it up and decorated until Groundhog Day or later. It brightens those chilly mornings.
So here’s to the gifts of the three Magi.
WALKING AROUND TOWN, MOSTLY
A typical New England neighborhood will mix a range of architectural styles and history. Dover is no exception.
One of the joys of living where I do comes in the variety of architectural periods you can encounter even within a block or two. While little in Dover remains from the first half-century of settlement here – a consequence, in part, of King Philip’s War along the Colonial frontier – that still leaves three centuries of development. Because my community was spared the ravages of big-city development, housing filled out neighborhoods over time as owners one by one sold side lots and pastures where new houses were then built. This makes for a rich tapestry, especially while strolling down a side street.
Throughout this year, the Red Barn will feature snapshots of some of these distinctive touches, especially in the housing styles. Hope you stroll along.
THANKS VERSUS MERCI OR GRACIAS … AS ONE, TWO, OR THREE SYLLABLES
I’ve heard that English is the international language for air traffic control, even at the Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport (what happened to Orly?), because it’s shorter than the others. Spoken French, you see, is considered too slow for a jetliner’s pilots and the tower.
Wondering about that the other day, I looked at the multilingual instructions included with the supplies for our new shower-surround walls. Sure enough, the English was about 20 percent shorter than either the French or the Spanish.
Anyone else been pondering this efficiency issue? How do German or Russian, compare to English, for instance? Or Chinese or Japanese? Just for starters …
TRUMPETS OF THE COMING STORM
My title is drawn from a line in John Greenleaf Whittier’s “The Last Walk in Autumn, XXV,” which echoes “blow the trumpet” in Ezekiel 33:3 “and the watchman cried” of 2 Samuel 18:25, followed by “I saw a great tumult, but I knew not what it was” in verse 29.
There were thunders and lightnings,
and a thick cloud upon the mount,
and the voice of the trumpet exceeding loud;
so that all the people that was in the camp trembled.
– Exodus 19:17
We, too, live in a tumultuous time, but in the crush of news and entertainment, the trumpets are muted. Prophets are neglected, and analysts and vapid pundits hold forth in their stead. Perhaps the rappers are too angry or too monotonous to cut through. The wheels spin and spin without a destination.
For my part, acknowledging Whittier fits my own turns in this writing. While serious American poetry typically turns away from anything touching on religious faith or political awareness (the exceptions are telling), both have been central to my life. Like Whittier – and Whitman, a step removed – Quaker practice has shaped my vision and voice. Nor is true faith distanced from social conditions. Closer to home, Whittier was a frequent visitor to the room where I worship weekly, and his parents married from the bench where I sit. To read Whittier with any appreciation in today’s literary perspective, though, I find I must break the cloying monotony of his simple rhyme schemes – recasting the lines will usually do the trick. What I then find is a surprising freshness within each line, a much more vigorous reach than is typical for the period. We forget that Whittier is the springboard for Robert Frost and all who follow in that vein. We also forget that Whittier was essentially a topical poet, immersed in the political and economic struggles of his time. Even Snowbound, for all of its seeming nostalgia, is an acknowledgment of technological advance and its impact.
Here, then, begins my cry.
IF YOU’RE CALLING FOR REAL, JUST SAY SO
Here in the midst of presidential primary season, I’m especially grateful to have caller ID on our phone. Yes, the voice part can be amusing, “Call from Chick-O, Chee Eh,” for instance. That’s Chico, California. Nobody we know.
We don’t pick up on the Unknown Caller, either. If they won’t leave a voicemail, we won’t deal with them. Period. Same for Wireless or Cell Phone, which has become another way for candidates’ campaigns and polling services to try to get through to us again.
Having a registered number adds to the problem. As more and more people switch to cell phones, the phone book gets slimmer – even before the printer switched to the tiniest type in existence for the White Pages. So the pollsters are sampling a shrinking pool of the public, which means, well, the same folks again and again.
Hey, usually the folks we want to hear from are shooting us emails anyway. So when are you using the telephone these days? Or how? And then? Does texting count, too?
Jnana's Red Barn 